In the year 2044, reporters from the Public Relations Ministry gather at the home of Benjamin Harker, the last surviving member of the Harlem Hellfighters. At the age of 144, he is the oldest recorded man alive. Hidden among them, Clyde Bruner is looking for a different kind of story. Across the United States, despite the Great Walls and patrol drones built to keep America secure, something has found its way in. And now towns are vanishing during the night. Entire populations, gone. Only to return after the sun sets, changed, unholy, and lethal. And whatever this evil is, its spreading west.

According to a bedtime story Bruner’s grandfather told him when he was a boy, Benjamin Harker has seen this before. He’s faced this scourge. Fought this evil. Survived them. Killed them. From the trenches of the Great War to the jungles of Vietnam to the sands of Iraq, Harker will search his past to save our future.

But as each city light extinguishes across the country, is there no time left to stop what’s coming?

“Huh?” the older
man grunted, his full attention glued to the small box television set. Family
Feud was on and Silas never missed an episode. As long as Julius had worked
with him at least, in these past four months on the night shift, the seasoned
longshoreman who acted very content with his life—who moved slow and never
liked causing “trouble,” as he called it, to his superiors, could recite the
most complex trivia questions.

Julius looked
back to his monitor. Part of his job was to watch for ships that may have
wandered off course, or even scheduled docks on the quay. The program displayed
on his monitor was linked to AIS Marine database that monitored all vessel
traffic around the world. He kept the screen displaying his assigned port—which
showed a few red, which meant docked and inactive. The one that concerned him
was another ship, inbound and blinking green.

“Mr. Green?”
Julius pressed.

The older black
man sighed loudly, turning away from his small TV screen. “What? Why the hell
would—listen son, you can’t let this job spook you. Working nights on the dock,
I know, the long hours can get to you. But trust me, this sure beats working
days out in that sun all day offloading ships.”

“But look,” the
younger longshoreman pointed his screen.

Frowning, Silas
rolled his chair over to the computer monitor. The green blinking ship
reflected off his thick glasses. He pushed them back up on his nose, “That
ain’t nothing, probably just a glitch in the system.”

Julius looked at
the screen and then out the large window that overlooked the Port of Jerusalem.
He’d just moved to town not more than six months prior from Bangor and he
wanted to make a good impression.

“Okay,” the
younger man said.

Silas nodded in
quiet victory and rolled back over to watch his show.

Julius continued
glaring at the blinking green ship as it approached the port on the screen. He
swallowed hard as it inched closer and closer. He glanced at the old man as he
howled at some man on the TV having missed a question that Silas thought was a
“no brainer.” On the monitor, the green
blinking ship was upon them. Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead.

Closer.

And closer.

“Mr. Green, I
don’t think is a glitch,” Julius protested.

Exhaling loudly,
Silas stood and turned. “Listen, young blood, I’ve been doing this job for
twenty years and I’ve never heard of no ship coming in that wasn’t on the
manifest.”

Julius shrugged.
“Yeah, but…” he gestured to the screen.

“There is no
ship coming—”

Just outside, a
large wave crashed against the port levee walls. A thunderous metallic screech
vibrated off the walls of the little trailer office on the wharf. Manuals and
notebooks and ship logs fell from the shelves as the ground itself felt as if
it was opening. The small TV still playing Family Feud rattled off the table
and crashed to the floor, sizzling out. The florescent bulbs above them burst
raining shards of glass and casting the room into a yellow gloom. The
horrendous grinding seemed to go on forever, shaking and shuddering the world.

And then it was
over.

Silas Green was
the first to prop himself off the floor. Looking around cautiously, as if any
wrong move would send the world into chaos again.

Julius propped
himself up, moving into a crouch. He peeked through the blinds. “What the heck
was that?”

“Shit!” the
older man hissed.

Julius glanced
over his shoulder at him. “What? You okay?”

Silas held up
what remained of his TV. “No, damn tube is busted.”

Shaking his
head, Julius peered back out the blinds. “I think we should go check the dock.”
He stood, not waiting for approval and went through the door of the office.

“Hold on, young
blood.” Silas gave the TV a final kiss—he’d had the device for more years than
he cared to confess, and then set it down on the floor as gently as he could.
Standing, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and retrieved a flashlight.

Outside, Silas
trotted to catch up with Julius who was standing at the edge of the wharf
looking up into the gloom.

“Somethings out
there,” the young man said.

Silas wafted the
fog around his head. “Can’t see shit out here.”

“Use the
flashlight,” Julius suggested without taking his gaze from in front of him.

“Oh,” Silas
grunted, flicking on the switch. A beam of bright white broke apart the misty
smoke like haze. He shined out toward the wharf and at first still could not
see anything. And then the fog parted as if controlled by some unknown force,
separating and unfolding around a large cargo ship.

Silas traced the
hull to the edge of the ship deck. “Mother of God,” he whispered, taken back by
the sudden massive size of the ship. He’d never been this close to one. The
larger vessels normally dock at Freeport.

Julius stepped
toward him, asking, “What do we do?”

The older man
couldn’t think—this wasn’t on the schedule, the ship manifest, nothing. This
ship shouldn’t be here. The harbourmaster would have said something. Hell, his
superintendent would have damn sure said something. It would have been on the
log. Silas moved the beam of light to the wharf itself, noting the broken
shards of rock in the thick cement and the thick crack in the hull of the ship.
It was taking on water for sure—it hadn’t even bothered slowing down. It
ploughed into the quay. But why? Wasn’t there someone steering this damn thing?
This wasn’t right. Something about this—everything about this wasn’t right.

“Mr. Green?”
Julius pressed, whispering hotly.

Silas looked at
him, the kid was rattled; he was rattled. He took a deep breath. “Okay, listen,
I’m going to call this in—pray the lines in the office are still operating.
Here, take the flashlight.” He handed it to Julius. “Stay put, yell out if you
see anyone. Some dumbass is going to pay bigtime for this screwup and it ain’t
going to be you or me.”

He gave one
final glance at the monstrous freighter and started off for the office. Inside,
he could use the phone on the floor. He scooped it up and dialed his
supervisor.

“Green, there
better be a good fucking reason why you’re calling me at—” Silas’s
superintendent started through the speaker of the phone.

“A ship crashed
into the port,” Silas blurted.

“What?”

“A ship, some
damn cargo ship. Large motherfucker.”

“Are you fucking
with me?”

“No, I ain’t
fucking with you, sir. A cargo ship crashed into the port, took a good-sized
chunk out of our wharf too.”

“Was it on the
manifest?”

“No—that’s what
I’m saying. This ship ain’t supposed to be—”

A scream from
outside on the dock jarred Silas from the phone.

“Julius, what
the hell was that?”

“Green, what’s
going on?” his superintendent asked, sounding more and more irritated.

Silence.

“Green?”

“Hold on, sir.”
Silas set down the phone, ignoring the muffled protest from his superintendent
on the line. He glared at the open door and crept toward it. There were no
other sounds, and he didn’t like that one bit.

Stepping outside
he called, “Julius?”

It was hard to
see through the fog as it rolled across the walkway.

Silas squinted,
peering through the gloom turned yellow by the glow of the dock lights.
“Julius, what’s going on?” he called to the dark shape in front of him.

And then he
heard it.

A sucking sound.

He stopped.

The dark shape
unfolded.

The fog parted
slightly, revealing a tall, bald woman with pale skin. Her eyes burned red. She
was looking at him with an expression of mild satisfaction, the look of a
thirsty soul finally getting a cup of water. She was holding Julius, cradling
him almost as if they were dancing.

“Who are—” Silas
started, until he saw her teeth, her large fanged front teeth, salivating in
blood. He took a step back as she let Julius go. His body crumbled to the wet
dock.

“No,” Silas
managed to say, like a child refusing to go to bed.

And then she was
upon him.

About the Author:

Who doesn't love a good story? Thomas's favorite books include All Quiet on the Western Front, Salem's Lot, and Hell House.

In his own writings, he aspires to create fantastic worlds with memorable characters and haunted places. His stories range from Shakespearean gore, classic monster tales, and even stories that hurt him the most to write about, haunted soldiers and PTSD. Residing in the swamps of Houston, Texas, with his wife and daughter, Thomas's debut novel, Reinheit, was eventually published with Shadow Work Publishing, along with Lanmò, The Hobbsburg Horror, FEAST, Beautiful Ugly, and Planet of the Dead.

His veteran focused paranormal thriller series, The Subdue Series, filled with werewolves, Frankenstein-inspired monsters, cults, alter-dimensional insects, witches, and the undead are published with Limitless Publishing.

In 2008, Thomas was honorably discharged from the U.S. Army where he served three tours in Operation Iraqi Freedom. In 2014, Thomas graduated from University of Houston-Clear Lake with a Bachelors in History. He is the senior editor at Machine Mean, a site that reviews horribly awesome and vintage horror movies and books from guest contributors who obsess over a wide range of strange yet oddly related topics.

With the cold weather quickly setting in, Lark is trying to
ensure she has what she needs to make it through another
bone-chilling winter in the cabin in the woods, but something has
decided to pay her a visit. The question is, who? Or better yet,
what?

There is a human invading his sanctuary, and he is
determined to get rid of her. Humans in the past have left of their
own accord, but not without a threat from him. However, this one is
proving difficult. But she’ll go. One way or another, he will make
her.

The thing is demanding that Lark leave, but she has nowhere
to go. No one who cares. So she's determined to stand her
ground.

Lucien closed
his eyes and tucked his violin under his chin, placed the bow to strings and
began to play. Long notes with a bittersweet edge embodied the atmosphere, like
a ship floating, lost, its crew and sails forever lost at sea.

A door slammed
in the background, and something heavy pounded the floor. Lucien's eyebrows
knitted in frustration, as a discordant note sliced through the illusion he
created. He placed the instrument on an end table, and stormed out of the
library, into the parlor.

His brother,
Edward, stood near the entry, loosening his cravat. He nodded.
"Lucien."

"What are
you doing slamming into the house like a herd of elephants?"

The material
slid off Edward's neck, and his lips curled into a pout. "Annabelle has
decided to marry Merrill Brighton," he said, with a huff. "That
leaves me starting over, or marrying Winnifred Camden."

Lucien didn't
think Winnifred was so bad. She had a few love handles, but that just added to
her personality somehow. His brother on the other hand, wanted someone with
riches and popularity. Lucien frowned and shifted. "What does that have to
do with your conduct? Please settle the affairs of your love life without
tearing down the house? Even Winnifred won't want a man with a poor
disposition."

"Easy for
you to say. Ladies hang on your every word." He smiled, "Or should I
say note?" He sat at the piano, and ran his hands over the keys. Soft
sounds poured into the room like a whisper.

Lucien sighed,
and pulled his coat from the rack. While he loved his brother's piano, he
wanted to play violin and he couldn't do it with the other music in the
background. "I'm going for a walk."

"Shouldn't
be out alone tonight," Edward said. "The moon is full, and it's
children will roam seeking their next meal, as the night wears on."

Lucien scoffed.
"Fairytales written to frighten children. Don't be absurd."

Edward laughed,
and the door slammed shut behind Lucien. Not that he was angry, he understood
Edward's frustration. A gentleman needed to find a woman of wealth to settle
with in order to live in comfort, unless he had a fortune of his own. Lucien
didn't worry about such things. He would rather spend his time making music.
Everyone fell into the hands of destiny anyway, the cards would fall where they
wanted, changing the course of a man's life, and shaping his future in ways he
never dreamed. A pleasant chill climbed up his back. Where would his music take
him? Would he be able to perform in great halls, or be forced to settle with a
woman, warming a bed and creating babies for her comfort?

The moon hovered
bright over the city, and sparkles of light danced on the surface of the
Themes. Lucien stopped to watch, breathing in the cool night air. His favorite
kind of evening after a warm, summer day. Frustration rolled off his shoulders
in waves. He began to relax and continued on his way.

footsteps
shuffled behind him. He stopped and glanced back. Nothing but the moon and it's
shadows disturbed the darkness of night. A bird screeched overhead, and he
jumped, as he resumed his walk. The footsteps resumed when he continued
walking. When he stopped again, they did too. Could there be something to the
moon children myth? Goosebumps covered his skin as he turned and squinted to
see better, but there was still only darkness. He took a deep breath and
shrugged the tension out of his shoulders. He was being foolish.

The shuffling
stopped when he turned toward the city, and soon he wondered if it had been the
work of an over-active imagination. His anger giving rise to the absurd. His
shoulders dropped, and he relaxed, as new threads of music filled his mind. He
hummed them as he walked, until the shadow of a man came into view up the lane.
Lucien tensed, was someone waiting for him? He turned left at the corner, but
moments later, the silhouette stood waiting once more. He turned again.

It had to be
someone else. No one could move that fast. How many people were out this
evening? Maybe it had something to do with the moon. His brother's words echoed
in his mind. He turned again, and shuddered when he saw the silhouette of the
man waiting.

Lucien's heart
raced. He spun and jogged back the way he came. In seconds, the silhouette
blocked him, but this time it was closer. His chest tightened as the man moved
toward him, his stride like a feral cat. For a moment, all Lucien could do was
stare.

Lucien broke the
spell, spun around and ran. The chest he crashed into was solid as cement.
Muscled arms encompassed him. He kicked his feet and twisted, but the man's
grip tightened.

"Don'
worry," a smooth voice crooned.

Lucien
shuddered.

"We'll be
done in just a few minutes."

About the Author Raven Williams

A prolific writer, Raven began her career in 2010 with a blog and non-fiction, then moving to fiction in 2014, when she began Elven-Jumper, the first book in the Realm.

Jumper Chronicles. She now has 30 books to her name, spanning the Realm Jumper Chronicles, Raven’s Twisted Classics, and the Demon Stones Saga, as well as her non-fiction, with more planned.

When Raven is not writing, she is creating art in the form of abstract paintings, fractal designs, and jewelry pieces that tie into her stories. She is also a caregiver for a disabled family member and two cats. She physically resides in the Northwest Florida Panhandle, but spends most of her time mentally in her Mystic Realms.

Friday, October 19, 2018

What do you think of when someone mentions Sherlock Holmes? The epitome of fictional detectives? A series of stories so timely and so visionary that they revolutionized police-work, the world over? A deerstalker? A pipe? Benedict Cumberbatch’s perfect cheek-bones?

You wouldn’t be wrong.

But in this season of fun-filled frights, let’s take a moment to reflect on one oft-overlooked aspect of the world’s favorite detective:

Do you know where the modern tradition of Halloween takes its roots? Dartmoor. Arthur Conan Doyle repeatedly set his adventures out upon the moor in abandoned hallows filled with lethal peat-bogs, fog, reeds and wisp-light. Want to see Holmes and Watson chasing a seemingly-demonic hound across moonlit moor? Well then, it’s no wonder Hound of the Baskervilles is amongst the most popular of Doyle’s original 60 stories.

Now, if you want to see them chasing an actually-demonic hound across a moonlit moor, you’ll have to check out my second book: Hell-hound of the Baskervilles. And for those of you who just rolled their eyes at how easy it must have been for me to come up with that angle: yeah, that’s sort of my point. You don’t have to work hard to make Sherlock Holmes macabre. It’s there already.

One of the less-known stories is called The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire; it features a mother who’s been caught sucking blood out of the neck of her own infant. Even in 1898, not great parenting.

Or how about The Adventure of the Engineer’s Thumb? It features not just the aforementioned disembodied thumb, but also its owner, trapped in a room-sized hydraulic press, debating if he should stand up, or sit down or lie face up or… Well, just what exactly is the least-painful way to be slowly crushed to death? It’s ironic that the modern detective story is attributed to Edgar Alan Poe, because in moments such as these, Doyle absolutely equals Poe’s famous brand of dark introspection.

Or maybe you’d just like to see Sherlock murder a dog. Would that be nice? Dog murder, anyone?

Because that’s how he unravels his very first case, A Study in Scarlet. Yep. No lie. To figure out if the pills he’s recovered are poisonous, he steals his neighbor-girl’s dog and feeds it half of each pill.

Guess what? (1887 spoilers follow…) Totally poison. There is something uniquely Halloween-ish about a character who thinks that is acceptable behavior. Oh yeah, and half the people he meets seem to think the only way he could possibly know the things he knows is dark magic. They’re wrong.

He’s not magical. But he is probably sociopathic. And he’s definitely not on the ASPA’s top 10 list of great guys.

So if Halloween makes you think about goblins, vampires, demonic possession and soul-binding magic… Well, pick up a copy of my first book, A Study in Brimstone. It’s all in there.

But if you’ve got a little time to kill before All-Hallow’s Eve, and if you’ve got a mind for the classics, here’s what you do:

You pull your favorite chair up to next to a window on a rainy night. You get some fleece pants and a comfy blanket. You brew up a nice cup of tea. Light a couple candles. Then snuggle down and spend a little cozy murder time with the undisputed-number-one-original-king-of-creepy-daddy-detectives, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

The game’s afoot once more as Holmes and Watson face off against Moriarty’s gang, the Pinkertons, flesh-eating horses, a parliament of imps, boredom, Surrey, a disappointing butler demon, a succubus, a wicked lord, an overly-Canadian lord, a tricycle-fight to the death and the dreaded Pumpcrow. Oh, and a hell hound, one assumes.

As they blunder towards doom, Warlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson find themselves inconvenienced by a variety of eldritch beings. Christmas brings a goose that doesn't let being cooked slow it down; they meet an electricity demon, discover why being a redhead is even tricker than one might imagine, and Holmes attempts an Irish accent. And, naturally, Moriarty is hanging around... in some form or other.

G.S. Denning furiously studied reading and math until he could play Dungeons and Dragons. His love of DandD expanded to a passion for all things in the sci-fi and fantasy realm, particularly when spliced with comedy - Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, Monty Python, Red Dwarf, Black Adder, Whose Line is it Anyway, Dr. Who, and the holiest of holies: The Princess Bride.

He learned his story-telling skills on the improv stage as a member of Orlando Theatersports, Seattle Theatersports, Jet City Improv, and as a Disney Performer at Epcot. G.S. also worked for Nintendo and Wizards of the Coast.

Finally, after realizing that humanity had not used the pun Warlock Holmes yet, he sat down to begin his first novel series: a dark-comic retelling of Arthur Conan Doyle's classic Sherlock Holmes stories. G.S. Lives in Las Vegas with The Best Wife and The Best Children.

Paranormal Horror Romance

Publishing Every Monday, Thursday, and Saturday (And sometimes in between!)

This blog is for every horror afficionado who enjoys watching horror movies, reading horror stories, and all the other mayhem associated with the genre.

Who I Am

Gail Smith is the pseudonym of Linda Mooney. Although I use my real name for my sci-fi, paranormal, and fantasy based romance novels and stories, I want to keep my excursions into writing horror separate. And I want readers to know that when the book says Gail Smith, they're going to get flat-out, unapologetic horror.